


Percy LOSAU Rewrite- Unedited

by PGT



Series: Last One Standing - Critical Role [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Last one standing au, POV Multiple, Past Character Death, What-If, don't read unless up to 115, spoilers for CR:VM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-02-09 09:39:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PGT/pseuds/PGT
Summary: Percival, the last member of Vox Machina has a few contracts and deals to complete.When the green clouds that rippled over Whitestone began to dissipate, the town was not hesitant to cheer, to run to the streets with families in hand and smiles on faces. The council did not take to such an optimistic initiative. Of course they allowed themselves a sigh of relief. If nothing else, a dystopia had been prevented. Conquering Vecna was no small achievement, but the itch was at the back of their minds.There was no chance that all seven of the town's heroes would make it back.





	1. Sole Survivor

**Author's Note:**

> Nanowrimo for 2017, word goal 20k. This is a rough piece and some of it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. I'll come back to edit later but I haven't posted in a while, so. Please enjoy, I had a fun time writing this even though it's not as eloquent or organized as I'd like it to be.   
> Only the first three chapters are not Percy's perspective, and maybe the last few (which I haven't written yet aaa)  
> Feel free to make reqs @ my Tumblr, Loyle-trash

 

They were heroes, the best of the best. A team of soldiers carved by the horrors of a world of loss and vengeance and betrayals. No member of Vox Machina was "weak". But Vecna was a god. A young one perhaps, but that changed little. The council had come to terms with this: 

Not everyone was coming back.

When Gilmore in his cloud of fuchsia energy appeared on the war room table, half of the council had drawn weapons, and all of their hearts were comfortably burrowing into their ears.

When they saw his state, trembling at the knees and clutching the weeping Kaylee and the shell shocked Cassandra, they'd accepted news of defeat. But the battle hadn't even begun, Gilmore reported. He was healed enough to speak while, Cassandra and Kaylee were provided a supply of potions and soft cushions to rest on. Their young forms, curled against each other in a mound of plush furniture gave insight into their wariness.

Gilmore spoke to the council of Vecna's cunning, how he had captured those closest to the party to get under their skin, placed them intentionally where he knew Vax'ildan would strike without hesitation. He spoke of Pike's valor, reviving both the fallen girls when they'd discovered their identities.

Cassandra could only cry, curled in the younger Kaylee's arms. Gilmore whispered at a distance of Percival's crude apathy, his argument against Pike wasting her spells on his own sister and Scanlan's daughter.

He hadn't given her a proper goodbye. 

They could only prepare, then. A cleric with two high spells drained already, moral impossibly low. This would be one of two things: a worldwide loss, or a Pyrrhic victory.

The city was safe beneath the castle. though grisly, the reformed temple of Ioun was unmistakably the safest bunker the governance could provide. Gilmore didn't bother instilling the city's bubble shield, no chance a god couldn't see through it. Keeper Yennen and those beneath him prayed insistently to Pelor, centered in the cavern below the Sun Tree.

The Pale Guard prepared armaments, for what they weren't sure. JB clutched a symbol of Seranrae, pouring her first prayer into the protection of her cousin and her companions. Cassandra waited numbly for her goodbye. Kaylee waited for her father's promise to be kept. Gilmore pondered on his last exchange with Vax'ildan.

Time passed slowly, the clouds overhead though not visible to the residents, seemed to seep into time's passing, dragging it through molasses. every twenty minutes Gilmore would scry to the city overhead, if just to see a blue sky. He sent a message to Allura, but received no response from the front lines. 

He hoped she was merely saving her energy for the battle.

And then, the sky was blue. He revealed it in hushed whispers to the council, to Jarett and a few esteemed members of the city. When the news spilled, Gilmore suspected through Jarett's telling to Kynan, and his to the guard and so on, the city did not hesitate to lower their defense.

The city celebrated, and the Council let them. They waited.

Gilmore got the message from Allura, an hour after Pelor's grace returned to the city.

"They fought well. Vasselheim lost many, and we are not without our own fallen brethren. Kima and I are safe, but the vanguard were not so fortunate. Percy is alive."

He dispersed the news. They all cried, even Cassandra, though her reason for doing so was dynamic. The town was not told immediately, Gilmore rather they discover through tale.

They did not discover that day. Whitestone knew when to take a victory while they could. Between necromancers and vampires and dragons, gods were simply another festival to mark on the calendar. Food was procured from the poorest to the richest, the town square packed with family alongside friend. Cheers were held for the heroes of Whitestone, tales of their escapades during the Briarwood's reign were shared and admired. Songs were woven and statues designed. Pride in survival was something that kept the winter city strong in the darkest time.

No one allowed themselves to consider why Cassandra was not present to celebrate her brother's heroism, let alone the rest of the council. They had all retired before nightfall, many to heal from their capture, others to prepare for the return of what remained of Vox Machina.

 

Seventeen days passed before Percival returned to Whitestone basked in a familiar smoke in the castle foyer. Whether he had expected to appear in plain sight or perhaps intended to be discrete, Jarett had been in the hall when the smoke took his shape. 

He did not notice himself draw the crossbow at his side, but as he found it raised, aimed true at the gunslinger's heart, he couldn't find it in himself to lower it.

"Is that truly you?"

The smoke seeped from his coat, tendrils curling out from below Cabal's Ruin. Against Percy's pallid skin and starker hair, it was a blinding contrast. He turned to Jarett, boredly, fearless. As he spoke, smoke spilled from his mouth like water. "Going to kill me, are you, friend?"

Jarett dropped his weapon. There was no explanation for it. Jarett was a willful man, but Percival was a dangerous one, and smoke had never been a sign of his rare pleasant choice making. 

"It is, then? I- I shouldn't have doubted."

Of course he should have doubted. Who better to imitate than the last member of Vox Machina? He knew the party's history with rakshasa.

"Welcome back, Percival. We've been anticipating your report."

He had no intention to say such a submissive line. Jarett had always been an employee of Vox Machina, ever since Greyskull, but he was no man to toy with words for a superior.

But Percival smiled coolly, not enough for his teeth to show, but enough that his head tilted, just to where he peered down his nose to Jarett.

Beneath the rim of his spectacles once crystalline blue eyes glistened red like burning coals.

"I'll be sure to share my experience with the council. Have them meet in the war room posthaste, yes?"

He left before Jarett could speak, calm tapping strides. When his steps dissipated, up the stairs and down the west wing to the bed quarters, bile stung at Jarett's throat. He stood braced against the wall, hands on his head. He had perhaps been the least affected by the loss of his employers. It was tragic of course, but all part of the duty.

But only now did the realization strike, that Percival was all that was left. He could only have imagined what solitude could've done to the man.

Jarett did not feel the similar thrall that strung his words together or drew his weapon as he informed the council of Percival's return.

When they had all convened in the war room, Gilmore pacing and Kaylee stabbing the stone table with a blank gaze, they made little conversation. There was so much to say. They all knew Percival's history, whether through personal experiences or stories passed along. For lack of a better word, he was a damaged man. Traumatic experiences were his expectation, and just as he had settled into a peaceful life, perhaps even thinking about marriage and a settled home in Whitestone Castle, his world had crumpled.

Percival was a broken man, but what was worse was that he was a powerful broken man. He may not be fond of the term magic, but they all knew about his history with the demon Oruthax by now. The smoke that Percival was often accompanied by in battle was an after effect of the demon's touch, They'd learned as much together through Cassandra and Kynan, who had witnessed the creature himself. What it did none were quite privy to, but alongside his prowess as a gunsmith and his intellect, it was a weapon.

They simmered in the thick air, silent but humming with queries. Jarett sat in a corner as he often did, but his head sunk and he stared blindly, questioning what it was that Percival had done to him. Cassandra watched the door with tears freely falling, fearing what her brother might've become in his loneliness. Gilmore prepared every binding spell he knew. Kaylee considered sending the de Rolo bastard to his friends with a quick stab or six. she'd been coping with her father's absence poorly.

But when Percival arrived, through the door this time, the curious air froze, and Kaylee couldn't make herself do it. Jarett noted that the smoke was less than it had been, only drifting like breath in cold weather now. He didn't know what it meant.

Every eye was trained on Percival as he walked to the chair at the head of the table across from his crying sister. Gilmore thought he might have read compassion in Percy's eyes when they passed over her tear stained face. It may have been a sneer.

He sat, and the room remained silent for several seconds. 

Percival seemed to be forming a monologue when Gilmore finally composed himself. "We're glad you're back." The words felt fake, even to himself.

But Percival smiled, perhaps genuine gratitude for the ice breaker.

"I'm glad to be back, truly. Whitestone is my home, after all." He looked to Cassandra, then. "Do not think I've forgotten my promise. Sophist of Native Ingenuity, remember?"

She nodded, but didn't seem able to speak. Gilmore asked the same question she would have, though. "You'll be staying, then? As part of the Council?"

"Of course, I wouldn't break a deal."

Perhaps Jarett was the only one that noticed the smoke plume grow thicker at the feet of Percival's chair. He also noticed how he seemed to wave it away fruitlessly with a boot.

But his smile did not waver. "I promised I would take my fair share of the paperwork."

Kaylee stormed out, then, only after stabbing her knife several inches into the stone table. But while talks of fulfilled promises broke her composure, it allowed the rest of the council to relax, if only fractionally. Cassandra mouthed a silent thank you, Kynan and JB edged around the questions everyone had, of the party's last moments.

And he told them, if in a vague manner. No one complained for his vague descriptions, no one could shame a man who had lost the six people he likely held closer than family. He went through the list. and with each name new tears began to flow from the room. Percival barreled through their names, Jarett's gaze locked on the hero's fist, clenched hard enough that blood crept from where his nails must have tore the flesh of his palm. As the list ended on Scanlan's name and something to do with a wish, Percival's eyes fell onto the knife Kaylee had left behind. He leaned forward to yank it out. "That was her father's," He mused, "She mustn't abandon it so freely. Similarly, JB, Kynan, I suggest you come to me later. I know how important Pike and Vax were to you. I couldn't leave Vasselheim without something for you both."

While JB and Kynan were wracked with new overwhelming sobs, Jarett clenched his teeth. His eyes fell on Gilmore, and the man's soft furrowed brow lent him some relief, Gods bless a skeptical Marquesian. He wasn't alone in his restraint. There was more going on. Percy was strong, but bullets didn't banish a God. His clenched fist, the smoke that seemed to have a mind of it's own, Jarett couldn't stop fixating on it. He was kind now to JB and Kynan, but what had the foyer been about? 

The meeting went on, words traded mostly between those who already had. Gilmore asked a few questions in regard to Vasselheim, which temples were still standing, who from the Slayer's Take were still standing. It took everything for Jarett to stay silent as the smoke recoiled at the list of temples.

When the questions became more one on one, the meeting naturally dispersed, and Jarett was the first to excuse himself.


	2. Soldiers and Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Centric on Jarett, Kynan and Gilmore. Percival is unstable, and Cassandra has it rough, doesn't she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly I can't wait to edit these but SCHOOL EXISTS SO... enjoy what you can (^""^'||)

Kynan came to evening training with bloodshot eyes and a belt full of daggers. He had skipped the afternoon, though for once Jarettt excused it. When he brandished Whisper, Jarett couldn't hold in a soft gasp. It was a vestige, after all.  
When he shook himself out of simple admiration for the weapon-- he was at heart a fighter, after all-- he remembered his place. "You're late. You owe me a spar."

Kynan only smiled sheepishly.

Holding Whisper in a pose identical to the late Vax'ildan, low to the ground and poised to dodge an attack, Kynan had no difficulty evading Jarett's short sword, despite his precision. Kynan retaliated by throwing the dagger, missing Jarett by a fair few feet.

Familiar with Kynan's fond collection, Jarett did not take the lost knife as an opening. What struck him, however, was that in a small puff of magic the dagger had reappeared in the rogue's belt.

"Isn't that Vax's as well?" Jarett took another two slashes, landing each hit on his gear. While Jarett sparred with dull weapons, he had enough strength to leave a mark, and was unapologetic when Kynan buckled.

Through pain, Kynan laughed. "It caught me off guard, I'd always seen it happen but..."

He rolled out of Jarett's range, evading another strike. He unsheathed Whisper once more. 

"Is it wrong, to be using his things?"

His stance was relaxed, and though Jarett was eager to take advantage of a vulnerability, he refrained.

"It's only wrong once you've disappointed him. Don't allow what he left you go to waste, no? You have to succeed him now."

Kynan smiled, though his eyes were sullen.

"But," Jarett stepped forward, flourishing his sparring sword once before batting the boy in the side. "Equipment doesn't make the man. Stop skipping out on your training, dammit!"

Training ended later for Kynan than the rest of the guard, and at this point it was hardly irregular. Only after Kynan had enough bruises to be mistaken for a drow did they put away their equipment. They got drinks in the cheaper of the city's taverns, sacrificing taste for atmosphere. After Kynan drank enough for his inhibition to waver, he confided his fear now that Vax'ildan was gone. His anger in the half-elf's broken promise. "He said he'd be my personal mentor, all those years ago."

"You killed his girlfriend after that, if I recall."

Kynan finished his tankard after that quip. He told Jarett about Percival's gift to JB, and how she was given Pike's vestige as well. 

"A librarian doesn't have much use for a suit of armor," He'd grumbled, "But he argued that the library was as good as any museum. Said a city blessed by Pelor had better be where it stayed."

"On the subject of Percival," Jarett started, eyes locked on his tankard, still mostly full from his first drink. "What have you noticed about him? Anything off?"

"He isn't threatening me, so I suppose he's over me siding with his mortal enemy that one time."

"And killing his best friend,"

"Yes, and that."

He didn't press further, supposing Kynan would have mentioned something if he'd noticed it. In the morning, he would speak with Gilmore. There was no reason to bring Kynan into his suspicions just yet.

But in the morning, after Jarett and Kynan wobbled back to the Pale Guard barracks in the north of town, he was not woken in a way he was most used. Trish often woke him with a push on the shoulder, and that would be enough. But when Jarett woke she was shouting from the doorway, and it took a moment for him to register quite what she'd said. 

She was already ducking out of the door when his ringing ears understood. "Get to the Castle, Percvial's done something wrong!"

His hangover was mild, far less severe than Kynan's must've been, but the necessity in Trish's voice was enough to sober him. He dressed in a matter of moments, grateful for his preference in light armor. he brought both his crossbow and his shortsword, just in case. He left the Barracks and pushed through the training area. The riflemen were already awake and training, Jarett was grateful that none slowed him down.

Jarett found Gilmore on the street to the castle, his hair unkempt and his robes casual. He gained in speed to swiftly walk aside him. "Gilmore! What's going on?"

His hands were busy, flicking in the air with glyphs Jarett couldn't begin to read. His eyes were locked on these glyphs, but he spoke free of distraction. "Percival almost killed his sister, She's had just about enough of that by now."

"Cass? Is she alright?"

"She's alive. I don't have all the details. Miss Kaylee and Yennen are with her now."

Jarett felt his stomach tense.

Gilmore spoke after Jarett did not provide a new query. "You've noticed he's different, haven't you? I'd have rather discussed this over tea or something, but... no time like the present."

"His eyes, and the smoke. You're a magic user, seen anything like it before?"

Gilmore shook his head.

"Keep an eye on him. I don't know if it's because of the tragedy of Vox Machina or something else, but the man's unstable."

The stretch of road between the city and Whitestone Castle seemed to grow as the two pushed down the road. Gilmore continued his glyphs, mouths moving in common, "Coming soon" and "Is he armed" phrases Jarett found of note.

But Gilmore did not share whatever response he got with Jarett, and he supposed it wouldn't matter. The castle finally neared, and the typical two sentries at the gate was only one.

"I was asked to direct you to Percival's quarters," The woman started, hand nervously affixed to a rifle at her belt.

"Not necessary," Gilmore brushed her off. "We're familiar with the layout. Don't let anyone that isn't from the council or the high guard into the premises, understand?"

Her eyes darted towards Jarett, who only gave a curt nod. "Yes, Sir."

She returned to her post and Jarett and Gilmore bustled down the front lawn. From here, Gilmore glanced up to the second floor of the west wing.

Jarett heaved the wooden door, enough for Gilmore and himself to enter. He could hear the commotion from beyond the banister, and an eagerness to be one with the crowd drew him in.

he bounded up the stairs, and was stricken by the sight of Keeper Yennen, hands crusted in blood, holding a trembling Cassandra in his arms. Further down the hall he could see the rest of those who resided in the castle and a number of guards. He stopped before Yennen, eyes darting between him and the girl. Her thigh was stained crimson, and beneath the color Jarett could see an entry wound.

She had gone through so much. Jarett was not as knowledgeable of the de Rolo family history as perhaps Yennen had been, but he knew Cassandra had endured far more than most did in a lifetime. The way she was curled into Yennen's arms, like a child fraught with nightmares, was pitiable.

"I'm taking her to the infirmary. Her arm will be fine in Pelor's hands, but you put some sense into that boy, alright? I've known Percy since he was an infant, but that won't allow me to excuse this."

Jarett only nodded, allowing the cleric to pass, where he exchanged a moment with Gilmore. At the far side of the hall, a few guards welcomed Jarett as he neared. A rifleman attempted to unpack the situation, but Jarett pushed past to the door.

"Sir! I wouldn't advise that--"

He hauled it open.


	3. Skeptical Marquesians

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'll edit this... one day. Writing fanfiction is a hobby, I typically put my time more towards artwork and I've barely had time for that (-o-;;) Please enjoy!

Smoke assailed Jarett's vision, its cool fingers licking at his bare arms. Though he waved it away, the cloud was persistent and quick to reform. The crowd behind Jarett stepped away, but for the one who, Jarett realized, must have been warning him of this. "We can't get through to him, and this smoke keeps building."

Jarett looked into the room, wondering at the plumes. "Have you tried knocking him unconscious?"

He had said it as a joke, but supposed it might work. If he wasn't such a monster. He could take the whole army.

"Do we have any druids to clear out this smoke or am I going in blind?"

He looked to Gilmore, who had only just made his way to the door now.

"Anything?"

He nodded, rubbing his eyes before rolling up his sleeves. "Step aside, it's a bit more powerful than necessary."

Jarett backed up, allowed Gilmore to post in the doorway. He shut his eyes, putting his palms together before gesticulating wide, swift circles and thrusting his arms forward. His incantation was drowned out by the air that burst from his hands, forceful enough to give a faint visible cyclone. The smoke at the door was thrust into the room, but as the room became visible, both could see that the room's contents were not spared from the gust. Papers lashed at the far wall, the window's blue curtains rippled. On the bed, Percival's hair was dancing wildly, and the smoke that continued to form at his sleeves was quickly expunged. Percival was staring blankly towards the door, but not at Gilmore. He did not move as the wind pummeled him, braced against the floor with a bare foot.

Gilmore dropped the spell, and what paper and trinkets had been pinned to the far wall fell with a rustle and a crash. Percy's body jolted when he no longer had to brace himself, and smoke fluttered from his sleeves, though its progression was calmer.

Jarett stepped past Gilmore, into the room. The Sorcerer followed close behind, and  they cautiously neared the bed. Jarett could hear the shifting of metal behind him, the pale guards fidgeting their rifles. He held out a hand behind him, signaling they wait, but rested his own hand on his sheathed sword.

"Percival," Gilmore began, and Jarett let him, knowing his charismatic presence. His eyes flickered with recognition, and the smoke coiled like a serpent around his sitting figure.

"Percival, can you tell us what you've done? You were doing so well yesterday."

He looked up, expression grave and weary. When he spoke, his voice wavered, so different from the day before. "I couldn't stop myself. I was asleep, heard a noise... She was screaming before I knew what I'd done."

Jarett sighed. "It's no surprise you're skittish, can't imprison you for trauma."

He thought about the morning he'd seen Percival, though. when he was so unlike himself, bending Jarett's will like paper. And after that, where he had been a strong presence, but a kind one. Now, Percival stared with glossy eyes, like he was lost within himself.

Gilmore stepped forward and sat beside Percival, who bounced with the weight on the mattress. "Did you regret what you'd done?"

Percival huffed, like the question had been a jest, but nodded. "I would never hurt her."

"But you did, Percival. We need a way to prevent this from happening."

"Perhaps we take your weaponry?"

"Absolutely not."

The smoke puffed angrily, and the Marquesians sighed. "I know you've been through a lot, but if you're staying in the castle you can't just  _shoot_  someone for frightening you."

"I can't simply let my guard down, Jarett." Percival's eyes snapped to him, and the crimson fire beneath his lenses caught him, if only for a moment. "I'll never stop having enemies--"

"What enemies? Vasselheim is taking care of any cultist involved with Vecna, you've killed just about anyone else that might have had qualms with Vox Machina."

"Perhaps enemy isn't the right word."

Gilmore fell against the bed, exasperated. "You're such an enigma, more now than ever."

Jarett concluded that for the safety of Cassandra, if no one else, something must be done. Percival was powerful, though. there was no way for any of the guard to simply man handle Percival into doing what they wanted. If he wouldn't give his weapons up, for fear of an "enemy", The guns wouldn't leave his person.

They couldn't  _arrest_  him, either. While he had harmed his sister this was less a matter of intent and one more of his sanity. 

"For now, we sanction off your room. No one in or out but yourself. That prevents any sort of incident from startling you in sleep."

"We can't have you just harming people and getting away with it because it wasn't intended, Percival. This is your one free ticket."

"Yes... and I'm grateful."

His heel was drumming against the floor, and he moved his thumb towards his mouth, tracing his lip while losing himself in thought. "I'll find what I can on the matter. I don't want to harm anyone, I insist. But I'm not ready to retire just yet."

"And what is it you need to do before retiring? Kill another god? you've done it all!" Gilmore threw his hands into the air, as if the notion was ridiculous, which, Jarett was inclined to agree. But Percival laughed, not a humored laugh, but one that was just a fraction disjointed. The kind that made the hairs on their necks rise.

He looked to Jarett, with those eyes, and then to Gilmore, "In all my life I've made a few... agreements. Like Cassandra's. But there's one I have to attend to."

Yennen returned soon after, with a mouth chocked full of words a cleric rarely ever forms. Though there was a twinge of fear for the old Keeper, Jarett didn't stop him, and  Percival took the berating. The air became unwelcoming for the Marquesians, then, as Yennen was much like a father figure. They excused themselves, though they did not give the remaining crowd of pale guards rest. Through his scolding, Yennen had claimed he would punish "the boy"-- what a thing to call a member of Vox Machina-- properly. Neither Jarett or Gilmore quite knew what that meant, but by their dynamic they supposed he would serve justice.

So they walked through the castle, side by side, lost in thought. Jarett, on the puzzle he was sure existed, the pieces within Percival's broken personality and his eyes and the smoke. Gilmore was not so much looking at the pieces like Jarett was. He knew Percival, not as much as perhaps Vox Machina, and his dynamic was much different from the Keeper, but he  _knew_  Percival. The tactful tinkerer with a belt of seemingly useless dusts and stone. The gunslinger with a penchant for bending words and whim.

To Gilmore, it was as if he was frazzled, too preoccupied to tend to his script. The old Percival didn't let himself fall apart so simply. To shoot his sister? uncanny. 

"He's not himself," was all Gilmore could murmur. through the day, Jarett and Gilmore concluded that this needed to be explored. it wasn't simply a mental conflict. The eyes were enough evidence for this, but Jarett soon shared the story of Percival's return, how he'd seemingly bent Jarett to his words. But Percival had never been one with the knack for magic, smoke being all he could ever make. Even his smoke was different now, too. it was ever present, and horrendously expressive.  

The day passed, and between Gilmore's home over tea and in the library with books, they scanned for any similar event. what made a man so stoic like Percival had once been resort to a panic-born shot? What could give a man such a prowess for the arcane that he had never taken interest in? Nothing from the Feywild could do such a thing, Vecna couldn't cause it, nor could a blessing of a god. this was something not written of in the books Whitestone had. Gilmore promised he'd ask Allura to join in a search for what exactly the source was, and Jarett was grateful, as he had little interest in scrounging books for a hidden answer. So Jarett left, leaving Gilmore to his tea, his bookshelf, still cracked in the left side from when he had been so rudely assaulted. The books upon the shelves were mostly of Sorcery and business practice, nothing of interest for the particular case.

There was so much that Percival had done. Vox Machina had gone through hell and back-- quite literally-- and there was no end to the items or curses that could be the origin of his new habits. Perhaps something within the Titain in Vasselheim had corrupted him, or a delayed vengeance by an Ilithid below Kraghammer. Anything was possible.

He would visit the Cobalt reserve the next day, with or without Allura. Though the reserves were damaged still from the Chroma Conclave, perhaps there would be a book on the topic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you like and dislike, a big part of nanowrimo is quantity over quality and while I was proud of myself for my word count I think my writing could use work. Feel free to send requests to my tumblr @loyle-trash!


	4. Gods and Devils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH GEEZ I abandoned updating this because I stopped editing and got embarassed rewriting and school and art and yadda yadda... 'm gonna post a few more chapters but I'm exhaustively aware that there's a lot of plot holes so sorry in advance!! <3

It was past dawn before Percival was finally rid of Yennen's disappointed glare, his chiding words. The man had known him as a child, and made it known often that he'd known the boy longest, but Percival knew he was far different from the child Yennen had known.

The one thing that hadn't changed, perhaps, was Percival's disinterest in theology. Yennen was adamant in his scolding, "Pelor is the one that heals Cassandra and so it shall be he damns you!"

But Percival had met the god himself. He was not afraid of Pelor. His endless orchards had been glorious, his tower incomparable to anything on the material plane, but that did not change one simple fact.

Pelor did not save Vex'halia. 

And so he only half listened to Yennen, answering only with curt, single word responses. He could argue on how miserably useless every god had ever been in his life, particularly Pelor, but the Keeper was set in his holy ways and it was no use to counter him.

But gods did he want to. he could feel Ipkesh's gift tugging at his sleeves, daring him to bark truth, to lash out. Animus glittered beside him, tempting, tempting, tempting.

"There are more important things to spend your time on, friend." He ushered Yennen to leave, to go back to Cassandra and make sure she was well. After all, Animus did not only deal physical damage. He needed to ensure her psychiatric health as well. 

The reminder put a sour taste in Percival's mouth, he had been on the receiving end of Animus' bite more than once, and the headache wasn't something he was so excited his sister had been forced to bear. The Keeper left, though not without a fair amount of grumbling.

His footfalls grew distant, and Percival was just grateful for the silence. He let himself sink into it, just for a moment. He stood, eventually, and clothed himself in his usual attire, a simple tunic and trousers beneath thick leather armor. Diplomacy, uncharged on his left hand. The iconic blue and violet overcoat, trimmed in coarse golden fur and threading. He wore his sword at his left hip, Animus at his right. Bad News on his back, resting snugly against the full length of Cabal's Ruin, which shimmered with energy. Last of all, he donned a thin leather cap, and as he attuned, he knew he appeared as a nondescript pale guard. He pocketed what goods he could carry: his pouch of ammunition, Manners, the contract. He would need it tonight.

He left his room, heading for the city. The sooner he was done with the second pact, the sooner the city could fix what it bore.

It almost wasn't worth it, now. The contract had stated what his power could do, but not the hunger it created. This, the ability to simply kill with a breath, to restore himself with hardly any effort, it was an addictive beast, surging within him.  
As he walked from the castle to the city, he spit off small spells, little nothings-- He tugged at the grass at the roadside with his magic, something he still hadn't quite grasped. The way it wasn't something he could sense bothered him. He figured that, eventually, he would be able to manipulate the magic without having to see his target, but for now he had to take in each individual blade of grass as he sapped the life away from it.

It was a dangerous ability. Useful in a fight with a God, harmless on a few tufts of flora, but what it could do when he wasn't in control-- it frightened him.

The euphoria he had felt when Animus ripped through Cassandra's flesh, boring into the muscle. The energy that poured into him as the metal ball burrowed into her thigh. If no one had heard her scream in pain, Percival wasn't sure he would've been able to restrain himself.

But he had. And he would. He wouldn't harm Cassandra again.

When he reached the city, the streets were populous. Percy found a twinge of joy in that, despite the cold weather, the roads had not a snowflake on them, warmed by the heating system he had designed. He walked on the warm cobbles, careful to keep his boots from clacking and to evade any contact that might bring any attention towards him.

The smoke curled at his sleeves, subdued, but still eager. When it had first flourished Percival hadn't been too concerned. He had been given god-like power, after all. Ipkesh had said so. No matter what the smoke was like, it could only compare to Oruthax, and once Percival saved his friends, they could help him be rid of it.

But the contract hadn't saved his friends. He had been too late, or too weak, perhaps. He wasn't sure. And now, the smoke was a noose waiting to snare him. He knew when he had signed the contract: devils weren't going to wait for him to die naturally. Once he finished what he had agreed upon, they would be hunting him day and night. Perhaps he wanted to fight back, he wasn't sure. He could find a way out of the obligation, if he truly searched for it. If he weren't so abandoned by gods, perhaps he would turn to Pelor, ask for his guidance in redemption. Percival had come to terms with what he'd agreed upon, despite his end of the deal not quite doing what he'd intended it to. He had been quite accepting of the whole "losing one's soul" requirement. There was no one to salvage it for, now.

Pact two was upon him.

Promises were promises, after all. And what better a temple to grace with a devil's presence than the Goddess who had taken everything from him? He was sure Ipkesh had chosen the small shrine to the Raven Matron not because it was a useful asset to devil's, rather he chose it to spite Percy. He had ordered it's construction, after all, though now he viewed it as a scar on the edge of Whitestone. The ascendant didn't deserve Whitestone. She didn't deserve the prayers of a city borne of survivors. Whitestone had survived vampires, dragons, cultists. Hell, the town itself was a miracle for thriving this far north.

So he stood at the entrance to the small white crypt. He ignored the conspiracy of ravens that observed from their perches-- surrounding him in the bows of nearby trees and roofing.

He pushed the door, and it groaned in protest. The Ravens cawed. No candles were lit within the chamber, and Percy had to stop himself from reaching for a half-elf to lead him in. He walked forward, guided only by his memory, recalling the layout during Scanlan's resurrection. He brushed against the low table, simple if not for the ravens carved into the table's legs. The beak of one, though he could not see it in the dim, snagged at his boots, as if a final warning. He continued through the dark, until his outstretched glove met the shrine with a small clink.

He could feel the smoke burst from his body, swarming the room just as it had when he had realized Cassandra had been hurt. In this instance, however, it was less his emotions personified, but the agreement itself. The smoke filled the room, but he could feel that it compounded in itselfjust to his left and right. Ipkesh's chosen. He wasn't sure what fresh hell he'd wrought upon Whitestone, but he knew they couldn't be less of a threat than the Rakshasa had been.

The smoke folded in on itself, and as Percival stared into the blackness he could see the silhouettes of his devilish guests. To his right, a rotund creature with a hunch in it's spine and stout legs emerged. To his left, the juxtaposing figure of a gorgeous woman with a curvaceous body so idealistic even as a silhouette Percy was taken aback. She could be mistaken for a short-honed tiefling, were it not for the feathered wings that protruded from her shoulder blades.

Percy did not recognize their kind; never reading extensively into the Hells and their history. As the smoke dissipated, they began to laugh, their voices crackling like fire. The fat one said something in Infernal to the other, and a short conversation broke before they seemed to remember who summoned them.

They turned to Percival in the darkness, and though his eyes had adjusted enough to see their basic shapes he wished their expressions were visible. He supposed that the female must have been smiling by her tone as she spoke in a silken common tongue, "You were well to do as told, soulless one."

She stalked forward, her body perfumed like pine nettles and a touch of gunpowder. Sharp fingernails scraped against his coat, another set groping at his hip. She spoke again, her voice in Percival's ear. "You won't be stopping us now, yes?"

"Of course not, it would break the contract." He spoke cooly, though he refrained from brushing her hands away. They did nothing to entice him, which he had supposed was the creature's goal. She was something of a Devil's succubus. He was familliar with the Demon, but it would be no surprise that Devils had their own version. The other, which he peered at from past the woman's feathered wings, he had no idea how to identify. It was something like the barkeep they'd met once, but as its hands moved at its side, Percival caught the coiled, unkempt nails that extended perhaps a foot from the creature's digits. The woman's nails against his chest and, now, inner thigh, were suddenly a great discomfort.

He did not push away from the woman, but did his best to look her in the eye as he excused himself. "I have other contracts to answer to, I must be going."

At this distance he could see her soft lips fold into a pout, and he held his composure as her nails raked upward. "So soon?"

She actually sounded hurt, and the air was intoxicating.

The fat one spat a command in infernal, and the woman froze in place, before relinquishing her prey. "I could have helped him forget, is all..." 

Percival felt his throat lock. "If you'll excuse me,"

He started toward the door, rounding the table without issue. The devils didn't stop him, and he entered the chill graveyard. He looked up to the boughs of the surrounding trees.

The ravens had vanished. 

On the road, just before him, sat a massive grey wolf, snarling.


	5. Amulet and Arrow

Galdric's teeth were bearing, even before Percy had walked out of the door. "Aren't you supposed to be on patrol?"

Of course, he didn't provide much of a response. Percival hadn't expected one.

He stepped forward, deciding the wolf was far less a threat than the Devils behind him. "I wouldn't try defending your Patron, she's a cruel woman, mortal or otherwise. Just let the devils do their business."

He passed Galdric, and was surprised when he didn't snap at him. But he was certainly growling at Percival, rather than the interlopers within the crypt.

He continued down the road, his disguise as a guard still going unquestioned. Galdric did not follow him, as well as he was aware, but as he ducked through the western gate, he could spot the wolf in the shadowed cusp of the Parchwood Timberlands.

Galdric's expression remained as it was, but in his snarling maw he was holding something.

He hadn't noticed in the city, but in the shadows it was the only thing that reflected light, a white glimmer catching his eye Percival considered ignoring it, still busy keeping promises.

He made his way toward the woods.

Galdric waited in the brush, teeth clutching a small black amulet. It had lost it's chain, and to anyone who couldn't recognize it, perhaps it would look like a benign stone.

Percy didn't reach to take it, unsure that Galdric was offering it. But he let his jaw slack, and the amulet lolled out of it.

Raven's Slumber fell into the dirt, coated in a thin layer of viscous saliva. Percy took it with his left hand.

"I've never used this," He confessed. The stone dripped, and Galdric whined.

"I don't-- do I have to attune?" He took off his hat and after cleaning it in the shrubs, fashioned the amulet onto the clasp of Cabal's Ruin. He would find a chain for it later, but for now this would have to do. He sat at the base of a thick tree, just deep enough into the woods that he couldn't be seen from the city. It would take a while for the item to adjust to him.

"Is it Trinket?"

Galdric didn't answer. He flopped down, mammoth paws extending to cushion his head. It was the most dog-like Percy had ever seen the beast. So he rest, until the magic of the amulet melded with him. He pressed his bare right palm to it, and let the warmth seep into him for a moment.

buh bum.

It was startling, to hear a heartbeat with a hand at his throat. It thumped again, and as each thrum pulsed through his fingertips, they hastened. He activated the amulet, and just next to Galdric, who's ears perked at the energy, the form of a Grizzly bear took shape. Trinket, battered and bruised, heaving beneath his plate armor, lay before him.

He never thought he would be so eager to bury himself into the bear's fur. He felt his eyes sting with tears, and let them fall into Trinket's pelt.

Trinket groaned, and Percy could feel his muscles ripple fruitlessly beneath the fur with the effort of movement.

Percival gripped the tree he had been leaning against, and tugged at its life force, pouring it into the bear. "Hold tight, buddy..."

He had done it without thinking, perhaps the same method he had adopted since Vecna had utterly sundered his life. But he wasn't worried like he had been this morning, or just after the contract was sealed, or when his plan wasn't working, and Vex'ahlia lie still no matter how much energy he poured into her. In this moment, All he was focused on was getting Trinket in a healthy condition.

He only looked up when Trinket had stopped panting. Galdric sat attentively beside him. His hand clutched at the now crumbling, ashen tree. What was more, any flora in a sixty feet radius was pale, lifeless, Percival at the radix.

The sphere of death would have startled him, were it not for Galdric's sharp bark, and the flock of ravens that simply seemed to appear as it pierced the air.

He stood, and the ravens cackled. They called out in a voice all too familiar.

"You are broken."

The matron spoke herself, and with her words flashed the images of three devils, hanging from crimson threads like nooses. Two were the devils he'd summoned, and between them was a pale one, pocked with entry wounds that dripped into the endless void beneath the dangling forms. 

He'd only wanted to do something good. 

He just didn't want to be alone. 

Galdric and the ravens were gone by the time Percival came to his senses. He was drowning in a torrent of smoke, hands clenching the fur at the side of Trinket's neck. He was aware that he was riding on Trinket now, though he could not recall how he'd gotten on his back.

Trinket must've felt him wake, because while he did not slow in his bounding gait, he groaned, as if he were asking a question.

Percy stroked the top of his head, focusing on calming himself down. Trinket depended most on his sense of smell, but running in this smoke couldn't be easy.

Why was he running?

Breathe.

Dangling on crimson strings.

Focus.

Had the Goddess killed the devils, somehow?

She must have.

He felt his hands tremor against Trinket, but the smog seemed to retract. He could see dusk sunset peek through the forest canopy, only knowing the time from the purples and pinks due west.

"Trinket--" it was all he could say before sighing. Trinket wouldn't exactly be able to answer. Where were they going? Did Trinket have some kind of plan?

Percy was worried about Artagan. He wanted to get these errands done quick, live the rest of his life fighting off devils sent by Ipkesh to hasten their terms of the final pact. He wasn't sure Trinket was so eagerly bounding through the woods for the same end result.

When Trinket stopped suddenly in a nondescript clearing, he was heaving for air, and the only light Percival could see by was the wan reflection of the moonlight in a small lake.

Though he was a Whitestone native, The clearing meant little to Percival. He didn't recognize the lake-- there were a number he had read about in the area, sure, but geography had never been his forte.

Trinket's wet nose prodded at Percy's hand, ushering him off. He complied, and watched as Trinket trotted through the wild grass. He puffed and grumbled, nosing at the ground.

Percy regretted never listening to Keyleth when she tried to teach him how easy it was to speak with animals. "Something here?"

Trinket raised his nose to the air and his nostrils flared intensely.

Percy looked to where his nose pointed, and, watching for any sign of disapproval, walked in that direction.

Trinket sat, still sniffling desperately. So Percy started through the dim, wishing he'd been born with dark vision. The grass brushed against his boots, and he was quick to take to keeping a hand against a tree for balance, as the tree's root system did not allow for a welcoming pathway. Walking aimlessly into the dark, he pressed his hand against a thick trunk, catching on some kind of twig.

He paused, before following the almost unnatural straightness of the stick, and his fingers met feather.

An arrow.

He tugged at the base of the shaft, bracing his foot against the trunk for more support. It wasn't a clean pull, he could hear the arrow crackle, though it didn't splinter as he finally jerked it out of the bark.

Percival stumbled back to the pond, mind racing. he clutched the arrow to his chest, heart sinking with what he already knew. He'd specifically only salvaged memorabilia for the council. He'd collected the vestiges he could, and he left Vasselheim to take care of the rest.

But he hadn't touched Vex. He couldn't. 

Trinket greeted him with a soft woof, Shuffling over eagerly with flared nostrils. he licked at Percy's vice, grunting with interest. Percy knelt, stiffly releasing the arrow roll onto the ground. Trinket sniffed it, but seemed discontent. he looked up to Percy, head cocked, a low puff.

Percy felt his throat lock, his hands shaking.

The fletching was worn with age, but the feathers were a mottled teal.

"She's not here, Trinket."

He bowed down and sniffed at the crest, nudging it closer to Percy's knees.

"It's old." Percy dug his nails into his palms, stilling the tremors.

Trinket whined, mouthing the arrow, careful not to damage it. He pressed his head into Percy's shoulder.

Eighteen days had passed since he'd last seen her, but Trinket must have been oblivious. He'd been in the Raven's Slumber before six seconds could pass in the fight with The Undying King. Trinket hadn't seen his ranger bloodied and begging like Percy had.

All he could do was lean into Trinket and bury his hands in the soft fur behind his ears.

"She's not here."


	6. Coping Mechanisms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does this make any sense I dont know to be honest I haven't read it since January probably?

Trinket was in denial, to say the least. Whether because he simply could not understand Common or because he was unequipped to cope with Vex'ahlia's absence, Trinket would nudge at Percy with the arrow in his mouth. At one point, when the head of the arrow had scathed his coat, Percy had attempted to take the arrow away, but Trinket had a steadfast grip and began to snarl when he did so.

He didn't like seeing it. The teal feathers were dull, barely visible in the dim undergrowth, but when the occasional ray of moonlight cast light against them, It was like she was just in the corner of his vision again, Trinket between them. He didn't want to become what he once had-- Oruthax hadn't been good for anyone, and he'd been summoned by Percy's susceptibility in grievance. He knew he couldn't let it happen again.

But his whole family-- all over again. Percy was never considered a strong-willed person, and all his life it had been challenged. He'd damned himself enough with the contract, but each day he expected to be crippled by a panic attack, for the smoke to curl back into the avian man that had guided him into darkness.

Trinket broke his trance with another insistent prod at his thigh. He hummed back, and wondered exactly when Trinket had last eaten.

"Are you... hungry?" Looking down at Trinket, who craned his head to look back, Percival was stricken with the realization that he wasn't sure he'd ever spoken directly to Trinket. 

The bear huffed.

What did Trinket eat?

Percy hadn't brought any food for himself, let alone a bear. He wasn't eating properly since The Fall, hadn't been so hungry. He looked out into the woods; he wasn't a hunter by any means, and wasn't much equipped for it. Perhaps he could craft a snare, but he didn't want to camp out-- having done nothing practically all day.

Trinket nosed at his hand, eyes intent. the arrow, wet with bear-spit, lolled into his hand.

He backed away, but watched Percy, waiting.

"What?"

Trinket huffed, and shook his head in frustration. He stepped forward again, and batted Percy down with a paw against the chest. He fell, not expecting the impact and watched as Trinket wandered past him.

Percy looked to the arrow. "Stay here, got it."

When Trinket returned with a mouth full of fish, He was welcomed by an inviting (though temporary looking) fire smelling of pine nettles and charcoal. Percival was leaned against a tree, coat folded behind him like a cushion. He wasn't asleep, Trinket could sense as much by his drumming fingers, but his eyes were barely open as he gazed into the dancing flames.

He grumbled through his haul, alerting Percy to his presence, and in an instant there was a shining pistol poised in his direction.

Percy dropped his arm, and his head fell back, face scrunched. "Sorry, Trink."

Trinket only lumbered over, dropping the fish beside Percy.

He peered from his skyward gaze. "Are those for me?"

Trinket flopped down, busy with the arrow leaning next to the human. Percy gingerly took a fish from the pile. When Trinket provided no protest, he occupied himself with finding a stick to cook it on.

"I'm heading to the Feywild, in the morning." Percy let the words drift awkwardly, still unfamiliar with such one sided conversation. "Will you... Bloody hell..."

He speared his fish and staked it into the soft ground by the fire. His hands rose to his hair, carding through it. 

"I'm talking to a bear. I must be mad. Tell me I'm mad, Trinket."

Trinket woofed lazily.

"See! I've completely gone. Two contracts to settle and I'm camped out in the woods chattering at a bear. An armored bear. Do I need to take that off of you? I haven't got a clue. Are there straps?"

His tousled hair added to the frazzled appearance as he whipped to face Trinket. But he was smiling through a gentle pant, almost a chuckle. With long strides, Percy stepped toward Trinket who rolled to his side, revealing sturdy leather belts across his underside. He tugged the straps free and dragged the plate metal off, proceeding to comb through the sweat-slicked fur until his fish was charred. He ate, talking between bites about everything and nothing. There was little train of thought, but he was candid and eager.

Trinket listened until Percy's words became muddled by exhaustion. Though he'd slept much of the day, he hadn't allowed himself much true rest since The Fall. They slept together, curled in a heap warmed by Trinket's body temperature while the fire died to a smolder.

Neither noticed the ravens that flooded the night sky above them.

In the morning, the ravens were gone, and the fire had become little more than a light black dust on the forest floor. Trinket woke before Percival, to his shuddering, and the streamers of black smoke that chilled them both. When he stood, Percy's body crumpled, having been supported against the bear's flank. His eyes shot open, and his hand groped for Animus at his belt. The smoke flared, before fizzling away as Percy remembered himself.

He was breathing heavily, but he managed to calm himself and stand. Percy dressed, by which he put his coat back on (He regretted not packing his usual night clothes). Trinket allowed him to reequip his armor, After a vague attempt at destroying any evidence they'd been here, The two found themselves moving south through the Parchwood.

Trinket would wander away occasionally, each time shoving Vex'ahlia's arrow into Percy's empty palm. Each time he returned he would take the arrow back, and it troubled Percy. Though the shaft was smooth, it felt like the stem of a rose when he held it. Some people wanted reminders of those they lost. Deep down, Percy supposed he treasured the arrow, regretted not taking something more meaningful as a keepsake when he'd had the chance. But here, in the moment, the arrow was just a taunt.

Syneth. Forgive.

She'd always wanted him to forgive, and he had. Delilah. Sylas. Ripley. Not the Raven Queen, or Pelor, he wasn't ready for that. He would never forgive Vecna, never himself. But she'd always begged he try.

Whoever that boy was that created those things that suffered such horrors that felt they were justified? You have to forgive him, too.

He'd seen the path to forgiving himself. Some days he truly thought he had, those late nights with Vex'ahlia, locked in eachother's eyes like an old married couple with not a worry in the world. Days where they'd pose names for their inevitable horde of children, "Once all this passes".

But it hadn't passed, and he couldn't save them, and he couldn't forgive himself for that.

But the arrow kept him stable. It wrenched his guts, but it let him think without the smoke swarming, without his shoulders knotting and his hands from quaking.

They found a rhythm of passing the arrow between themselves, to the point that Trinket didn't just give it to Percy when he wandered, but when he knew Percy needed it to serve as his anchor.

Several days of undisturbed trekking found them at the edge of the Timberlands. Percy's thoughts were locked on Vex for much of the silent hike, but it was soon overridden by the present. He was sure the Council had an idea of what was happening, by now. They were well equipped with magic users, he expected they'd scryed at least on one occasion once they realized his absense.

He wondered how Cassandra was faring.

She was better without him.

But Percy was waiting for some form of search party. He had no proof one was coming for him, but he knew Galdric had some kind of interest. If they tacked the wolf ton his scent, he was done for.

Needless to say, Percival was alert for soldiers.

When he finally did find himself meeting a person's eyes, they were not from Whitestone. His skin was dark, printed with a familiar form of tattoo of a lighter shade.

Percy had instinctively pulled Animus, but at the calculation he dropped it back into it's holster and reached his other hand out, "K-kaitiakè."


	7. Zephra

The halfling seemed surprised at the term. He gave Percy a long stare, eyes drifting from his crimson eyes to the horde of strange weaponry, to the bear.

"Kaitiakè." He took Percival's hand and shook it with a clasp that could dent metal.

"What's a druid doing so far up north?" He wasn't the most familiar with Ashari traditions, but as far as Keyleth had explained, the only time Ashari left the tribe was to take their Aramenté.

"Elder Korrin wished to give his condolences to the survivor of Vox Machina," His eyes fell just behind Percy, to the stock of Bad News past his shoulder. "And just what is he doing so far south?"

"Heading to Zephra, actually." Korrin. He hadn't had the chance to speak with him, yet.

"We may as well Transport there, then. Not much ceremony in the Parchwood."

He started stepping towards a larger tree in the wood before turning back for just a moment. "My name is Oberan, By the way."

"Percival."

Oberan pressed his fingers to the bark of the tree and the mountain village glistened from the other side of the spell. The three stepped through to the center of the town, just below the towering Cherry Blossom.

He took a moment to gage his surroundings, noting several children who had been in the area to see him step through. Some stared with wide eyes, some whispered. He caught Keyleth's name in the murmurs.

Oberan brushed his shoulder as he passed, waving for him to follow. Trinket fell in step with him and they were lead to A home Percy recognized as Korrin's. "He had wanted to see you, were he not too busy to come. No reason he can't see you now."

Oberan rapped at the doorway a number of times that seemed intentional, before opening the door and stepping through. "Kaitiakè, Elder Korrin."

From a table littered in paper, Korrin spoke. "Kaitiakè, Brother Oberan. Back so soon?"

He only turned after he had spoken. His eyes fell on Percy and he became rigid. "Ah, I see."

"Kaitiakè, we've met once before."

"So we have." Korrin cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck. "So it's true, the gunslinger is the one that made it out."

Korrin seemed a touch defeated. Percy couldn't help noticing that this would be the second time Korrin lost a family member to a creature of unfathomable strength. He hadn't gotten to say goodbye, twice.

But he held his head high, blinked away what tears might have been forming. "It's terrible what happened. You must have been very close to all of them."

"Most of them, yes." The jest was executed with a weak smile. "Your daughter was invaluable in the fight. We wouldn't have succeeded without her."

Korrin nodded, sighed. "It is a shame Keyleth did not live to serve her people directly, but she saved us from a worse strife."

"That's one way to look at it."

"Please, sit."

The three organised themselves around the table, the papers cleared to one side, Percival catching that each appeared to be a letter of condolence from the other Ashari. One letter caught his attention, the paper less natural-looking than the others, with a wax seal. 

"Do you mind if I take a look at that?"

"I suppose not. Do you know the man who wrote it?"

Percival took the paper, skipped the body of the writing to read the salutations.

From one grieving father to another,

Syldor Vessar

"I've met him before, yes." His jaw locked, and he forced his fingers not to tear the parchment before he could read it. Vex had made up with the elven man, but that he had the audacity to speak to anyone affiliated with Vox Machina was irritating.

To Elder Korrin of Zephra of the Air Ashari,

I write to you as the father of three fallen in the battle of Vasselheim and the Whispered King. The twins Vex'ahlia Vessar and Vax'ildan Vessar of Vox Machina are my daughter and son, and I would be remiss not to give my grievance to the families of their brothers and sisters in battle. Even if I was not as close as I could have been to my children, I take pride in what heroes they have become to Tal'dore and beyond. If you require strength in these trying times do not hesitate to take my aid. I've heard tale that Vax'ildan and your daughter were close, and it warms me to know that my children were not so damned by my negligence that they could not find love themselves. Whether this was due to your daughter's traits or Vax'ildan's strength I cannot say, but perhaps it is a combination of both.

I digress. The true reason I send this message, aside from the prior statements, is for something perhaps more positive. Syngorn is not a city to celebrate much, but the accomplishments of my children are being regarded in a few weeks despite their half-blood. I invite you, as well as the families of the fallen to join in our ceremony so that we may send their spirits away in true Elven fashion within the Feywild.

Still himself. Percival noted the scheduled weekend of the ceremony. It was only in a few days. "Are you going to this?"

Korrin spied the letter, then smiled. "Gods, no. I'm far too occupied here."

"I'll be sent as proxy." Oberan too, glimpsed the letter. "Were you sent an invitation?"

"I'm not sure, couriers wouldn't have an easy time finding me."

"Were you not staying in Whitestone?"

"Just for a day."

"You were heading here, yes? Whatever for?"

"It's all quite fascinating," He folded the parchment, returning it to the pile. "I'd actually come to request someone who might be able to planeshift me to the Feywild."

"But you received no invitation to this celebration?"

"It was a separate excursion."

"Oberan, you wouldn't mind bringing Percival to Syngorn, would you? The whole city will shift to the planes, you may as well send the Vax'ildan and Vex'ahlia away with their father beforehand."

He strained to formulate his words. "The twins... didn't care much for Syngorn. The city cared less for them, being half elves, but after they became heroes it was like they forgot their bigotry."

Korrin nodded, "I'd heard of their father through Vax'ildan on occasion, yes. I can't imagine a city so spiteful trying to act like they never were. However, it is not the city being celebrated, but Vox Machina's heroism."

"You should come, Percival. Grief should be shared. It could be a healthful experience."

He considered denying the offer, but it was the easiest access to the Feywild he had. It was this or fending off basilisks looking for the portal in the Frostweald.

"I may as well."

The trio moved on to different discussion, Korrin giving his own condolence to Percy, who shared an anecdote about Keyleth. Oberan seemed content to sit to the side of the conversation, only interjecting when Korrin gave him a clear opportunity to.

Time passed, and Korrin excused himself to get back to his duties. Trinket, by this time, had wandered out of the building.

"I should probably find him," Percy left the table with this, and Oberan followed suit.

"We can find him together. I can present you with a temporary housing for the night afterwards, if you would like to retire?"

Percy complied, and together they walked through Zephra, half looking for Trinket, half enjoying the town's atmosphere. Many of the druids they passed greeted Oberan warmly, others seemed as if they wanted to speak to the stranger, but held their tongues.

"It's likely many people recognize you from Keyleth's Aramenté. You were there, as one of their Headmaster's guests and acknowledged in her speech. We do not forget such things."

When someone did finally dare to speak to him, it was a young child with wild brown hair and eyes filled with wonder. She was followed by a small horde of similarly aged Zephra children.

"Mister Oberan!" She had shouted, running up from behind them, flailing a wooden staff.

Oberan turned, and so did Percival, and they both saw that the girl was truly more interested in the new face.

"Yes?" Percy asked it with what warmth he could muster. He imagined he sounded more tired than sweet.

"You knew Headmaster Keyleth."

"I did, we were close friends."

"Can you tell us about her adventures?"

Oberan smiled in the corner of Percy's vision, and he found it hard to find a way to excuse himself. 

"I wouldn't mind sharing a quick tale, but I have a bear to look for."

"Trinket's been playin' with us," A younger boy piped up amidst the crowd.

It took a moment for Percival to realize how the kids knew Trinket's name.

He gave in. "Lead me to him, and I can tell you all sorts of stories."

The children lead him, as well as Oberan, to a large cliff edge where Trinket was being fed berries and given a flower crown. The cliff was large enough that Percy was not anxious over the risk of falling, however the amount of children leaping into the windwall surrounding Zephra at just the right time to be caught by an upwind was a bit discomforting. Air Ashari, from his experience, did not fare well with leaping off mountains.

But he did not tell them about the Goldfish incident. It was still unsettling to think about any of Vox Machina's near-death experiences, let alone such a gruesome one. Instead, he began with the battle with Raishan. He elaborated most on what he remembered Keyleth doing in the fight, recalling her purpose of avenging the Fire Ashari of Pyrah. When he was obligated to mention another member of Vox Machina, someone would ask him to talk about them, and soon he had detailed the entire fight. He did not mention how he and Scanlan hadn't survived. It was too complicated to try and explain.

The children's questions drifted, from himself to his guns to Trinket and back to Keyleth. There were simple ones, like "Why is your hair white?" or "What's a gun?", and the kinds Oberan helped get him out of, more sensitive queries.

When the children were finally satisfied with their interrogation, it was dim, and Percy was sufficiently exhausted. Some adults had come by to watch, but none asked anything of him, and he was silently grateful for it. When it was just Percy, Trinket and Oberan, He felt a weight fall upon his shoulders.

"I didn't expect you to be so compliant," Oberan noted, combing through Trinket's belly as he did. 

"It's hard to say no for kids that admire Keyleth. I felt obligated."

"They're surely grateful for the time you gave them."

Eventually, Oberan led Percy to a small abode, and he was eager to crawl into the thin but comfortable bed provided. He threw off his boots and coat, removed anything that might be painful to sleep with, other than Animus.

He slept curled up with Trinket at his feet and Animus beneath his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi if you didn't see Liam's tweet the seeming OC is actually based on his replacement character concept for Vax'ildan!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please give a kudos if you enjoyed and feel free to give your thoughts in a comment.


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